Crossing
by Darknightdestiny
Summary: [Vincent x Tifa x Hellmasker] Long ago, people believed the soul was connected to the body. Vincent had always thought that Tifa seemed like the... introspective type. HAPPY HALLOWEEN.


**Crossing**

_Warning: Violence, assault_**  
**

Long ago, people believed that the soul was connected to the body. Vincent didn't really believe that, but he supposed he could understand the sentiment. It was much easier to experience something he could taste and touch and _breathe in_, something that was tangible and _real_. Blood and breath could feel a lot like life and spirit when their scent was so thick on the tongue, their warmth so slick on the hands. So fragile, when they became the same thing...

It was easier, he mused as his fingers worked in the dark, to get to know something—some_one_—when looking at it from the inside out. To get to the very grit of a matter, the very heart of it—the red, _red_ heart of it.

His breath was a rasping sound, the smell of open flesh heavy in the air. One could get acquainted quite well with anything, when looking at it from this angle. Vincent knew he was ugly on the inside—but he couldn't stop _looking_.

Damned to wander for all eternity; those who were broken, their bodies bloodied and rent, were left unable to cross over. They were lost forever to the unforgiving and constant flow of time. A lonely, _lonely_ fate.

Up until recently, that had been fine with Vincent. He'd already missed his one chance—the only thing he had considered worth following into the afterlife once upon a time had already slipped through his fingers. Everything else was fleeting.

He almost didn't hear her, when she came into the room.

Her steps were careful and quiet like a cat's—he wondered if she even noticed when she took to treading on the tips of her toes, she did it at such random intervals sometimes. It was more her underlying scent, a distinct signature in the air, which gave her away. Something that was simply _her_ and nothing else. He would know that soundless flutter anywhere.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he called softly from his dark corner by the window, an almost languid intonation, odd under such circumstances.

She gave no reply, which was just as well—his face was obscured from her, and she wouldn't be rewarded with any visible sign of his reaction. He did hear her back away, bumping a hip or an elbow on the table beside her, and the familiar hitch in her breath as she bit back a curse.

Curiousity spurned him to finish quickly, perhaps sloppily. The wound had almost stopped itself from bleeding, even as he was finishing the stitching. It was convenient, his penchant for recovery, but it made working on open tissue difficult. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for this time, anyhow. Even beneath the surface, he looked much the same as any other human. Perhaps it was his mind that was poisoned.

She hadn't bothered to peer at him in all that time, to cross the room and find out exactly what it was that he'd been doing to himself. When he sat up, the mirror he'd been balancing slid between his knees and down the gentle slope of the sheet—and he glanced at her reflection, yards away.

Still standing by the table, as unassuming and patient as ever. Soft and pale in the moonlight, not like him—no, he was a ghastly white in the corner of the glass—and it would only ever take one touch from her to unhinge him completely. Her stance was twisted; she was looking down at her hip, touching and rubbing it like there was some fixation to be had. She must have bruised.

Vincent stood and slowly crossed the distance between them. In and out of the gentle beams he walked, their light stretching across the floor and the wall like searching headlamps. She looked up when his footsteps finally registered—her eyes widened perceptibly when they alighted on the gash adorning his bared side. No, she wouldn't have recognized the injury, but her attentions were quickly drawn when he stopped in front of her and glanced down.

It would seem that she'd caught herself at an unfortunate angle. The skin just over her left hip was ragged and torn—not too deeply, but deeply enough—and already a few small drops of blood had squeezed their way through to the surface.

Sweet copper, rich and warm with a bitter finish; his sensibilities recovered the slight traces in the room and hoarded them beneath the wells of his eyes, in the back of his throat, reverberating in his bones and the spaces between. Vincent never could stand the smell of human flesh—stinking, rotting filth and sweat—even in his youth, despite how the beast within him took pleasure in its destruction—

Until he'd caught a wave of her on the tip of his tongue; blood, sweat and breath and the oils in her skin, and he could never get enough of_ hers_. There was nothing particularly romantic in this addiction, but then Vincent had always been rather strange when it came to things like that, and the ideas he held were equally strange. But he couldn't help but _notice_. When her fierce-beating heart held fast to something, and she turned from a slender young woman into a chest-pounding, adrenaline-pumping, bone-popping, muscle-straining, _toe-curling_—

"I just came to tell you that..."

He bent down to kneel in front of her, his eyes about level with her smooth navel.

"... that there was a nice spot a ways down the road, and Cid wanted for us to meet him there for breakfast in the morning, to try to get away for a bit, you know..." She took half a step back and shifted awkwardly on her feet. "Um, what are you—?"

He laid two fingers atop the tiny expanse of broken skin. Already he could feel the heat radiating from the tender area, the nerves throbbing underneath their cover, pulsing beneath his touch. It reminded him of the many times he'd seen her knuckles cracked and bleeding—powerful hands clenched tightly, legs tensed and ready, sweat-dampened thighs and chest and neck...

He felt something stir low in his belly and travel south.

"I'll get my restore materia," he said quietly. Vincent stood from his spot on the floor and walked back into the darker recesses of his room, retrieving the heavy orb from its slot in the bangle he'd left sitting out on the bed.

"Oh! You don't need to," she said. "It's only a scratch."

Vincent frowned, coming to stop in front of her once again. "You don't want it aching tomorrow."

She supposed he was right, and she stood still while he bent down again and nursed the faint glow to life. Vincent had always been skilled with materia, and this he did without stalling, the broken flesh mending quickly despite his temptation to touch, to taste. No physical desire or mental obstruction got in the way of healing her—not until he had turned away from her and retreated once more, to return the materia to its rightful place.

It was then that Vincent made one fatal mistake, one which would haunt the both of them for a very long time to come; rather than retreat to the washroom to clean his hands, he looked at the thin layer of blood smeared across his knuckle...

... and lifted it to his mouth.

The gesture was as smooth and as absent as if it had been his own blood, his own wound, but the difference was insurmountable—the _taste_ was incomparable. It was so much better wrapped around his tongue than burning behind his nose and eyes; only a few drops, and already he was turning back toward her, hard-pressed to not touch her, test her, _ask to take _her...

The mere sight of her now had him weak in the knees.

"Vincent?"

Her head was tilted curiously at him; no, she hadn't seen, but he was most undoubtedly flushed hot and staring through her.

"Vincent, are you all right?"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, suffering the urges rising within him. "... I need some fresh air."

"Going for a walk?" she smiled, stepping aside and nodding toward the door. "I'll come, too."

×××××

The streets of the sleepy town were deserted and dark—this disconcerted him greatly, as Tifa seemed intent on keeping him company, and her specificity and alluring scent and features weren't likely to morph into anything else in the near future. A thin fog skirted its way inbetween buildings and through alleyways, but she seemed content wrapped up in his cloak. He thought it suited her quite nicely, though he couldn't place his finger on why.

"... What happened to your side?"

"Cut."

He didn't say any more on the subject. "Oh. Okay," she shrugged. She didn't bother to make mention of his regenerative capabilities, or that it had disappeared by the time he had gotten his shirt on and they'd left his room. "It's just that I hadn't noticed, back when we—"

"Here," he said shortly—she didn't seem to notice the frustration creeping in around his edges that evening—and placed his hands around her shoulders, pulling her over to his other side. "... The wind is blowing that way," he muttered.

An amused smile, almost secretive, spread across her features. "That bad, huh?"

Vincent raised his brow expectantly. "Excuse me?"

"I know I've been sweating, running around all day." She laughed then—not loudly, but not softly, either. Tifa genuinely enjoyed his company. "I also know your sense of smell is much stronger than mine," she said. "I was going to wash up after giving you the message, but... well, this is nice."

She flashed him another smile after that, clearly unapologetic, but that didn't matter. "That wasn't why," he corrected, grimacing to himself. "You smell... fine."

Tifa nudged him with her hip, playful in her ignorance. Oh, she thought he'd been at a loss for a better term—which was true, but not for the reasons she probably expected. "It's good to get out once in a while, I think."

"Yes." Or to get away...

"You should come out with us more often," said Tifa, "since we spend so much of our time fighting monsters and looking out for everyone else. I mean, there's so much to worry about, but you have to unwind sometime. It's not good for you to sit on it."

It didn't occur to her that he might not care, nor did it occur to her that she was the last person—with the exception of possibly their leader—to be giving that sort of advice.

"You'd think you needed a written invitation," she joked. He was frowning though, when she looked up at him, and her expression sobered quickly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know why I'm being so pushy."

"It's alright," he said quietly, absent again. He was cut short of walking when her hand reached down and grabbed his.

He stopped and turned to look at her, confused. "You really should, though." She took a slow step forward, less than a foot away now and staring up into his face. "Even if just for a little—" was she blushing now?— "I like being with you."

Not the best decision she'd ever made—she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, carrying the wrong sentiments. It was not a good combination. And if only he'd _known_, twenty, thirty minutes ago...

She was—

_Maybe..._

But the feel of her hand was palpable, and he was already so far gone. There wasn't much he could do to stop himself from that point on; he felt her on his skin, warm pulse and shallow breath, and his mind was telling him—right _here_, right _now!_—he'd stop nothing short of grafting her there so he could feel her always.

And when she lifted his hand to her chest, fingers laced with his and pressing the backs of his knuckles tightly against her breasts...

"Vincent?"

How he wished he could feel that pulse so much more acutely; he wished he could sink his hand right through her, wished he could fall forward and simply—

"Oh—!"

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it was that he'd begun kissing her; he barely took the time to register that she was now crushed between himself and the nearest building. It wasn't that he was attacking her mouth—he was all light brushes and _so much breathing_—; his mind was racing ahead of him, spiraling away like a spool of discarded ribbon.

She was warm against him, flushed in the humid night air, her curves pliant against his figure. Her head, her skin, was sweet-smelling, and the heat emanating from her body was like a beacon, calling and tempting him. Her blood, her scent, the _breath from inside _her lungs that _he could taste and share_ at that very moment—she wasn't even aware of the terrible ways in which she made him want.

The wave he was riding crashed out from under him.

All he wanted was to feel her _from the inside out_, to strip her down _to the bone _and burrow deep_ underneath that perfectly smooth, flavorful skin_, to see and feel and taste and touch—_her warmth, her life, her red, red heart_—

"Vince—nt! Gods!"

Until he couldn't control himself any longer, couldn't unclench his jaws long enough to pry his grip from her collarbone. He could not tear himself away even as his teeth—angry and flat and _human_, but not crushing, not breaking or destroying, which meant... no!—ground against bone and her cries turned to agonizing, frustrated whimpers. There was a hand tightening in his hair, pulling, yanking hard, and a strangled yelp—his, or hers?—sharp nails hard against his back, inside his shirt and all over his flesh, shaving the skin away in desperation.

Then came the answering bite, too late and too blunt and much too ineffective. But it was good—oh, it was good—and it was begging to be let out, clamoring and clawing its way to the surface.

_It..._

That was—

Frantic struggling for air—gasping, wheezing sounds. She hit him once in the side, but she was weakened, and he didn't even acknowledge the blow. Her legs were too heavy to lift, but she had to hurry; she was choking, crushed—the pain was enormous, spreading from her back and her chest outward and reverberating in her bones.

Tifa gave one last muffled, hoarse shriek, and then her world went black.

×××××

The human body was an amazing thing, once one got past its fragile hang-ups. Many parts, all working together and serving their purpose as part of a whole—oh, the things one body could accomplish or become. But when one piece became useless, just _one_...

He wondered, as he snipped away, whether or not there were any parts that served no function at all, anything unnecessary or extraneous. Certainly not Tifa, no. It wasn't that she was the heart of their little group; Aeris had been the heart. He thought that perhaps Tifa would be hurt to hear those words spoken aloud, but the truth of the matter was that Tifa was something much stronger, much more pervasive.

The heart was overrated, anyway. It didn't do much on its own, and its functions could be simulated. For all the sentimentality attached to the heart, it was still no more brilliant for its title or its place. It did not become something else; it was not a feeling, lively thing full of emotion and love, but a helpless, inanimate piece of blood-pumping meat. But Tifa, she was resilient and able—she held their body together and was woven through and around it. Binding, consuming...

She was—

_There_.

If she fell apart...

×××××

When Tifa awoke, it was still dark outside. The dark blues and grays of the early morning sky painted a bleak picture from her vantage point on the... bed.

The bed?

Slowly, she lifted her head and surveyed her surroundings. She was back in the inn, back in—Vincent's room? The layout seemed like his, but there was nothing in this room; no bundles or baggage, no guns. It was light enough that she could see most everything, though shadows and furniture could hide a body easily; but there was no one lurking in the corners. She was completely alone.

A glance to her left found the only items left in the small space; on the bedside table sat a restorative materia and a neatly folded notecard, which she recognized from the gift shop downstairs. She thought to reach for it, thought about _why_ she might need it, and checked herself. The last thing she remembered, she had been outside with—_him_, and—

She reached down between her legs. No—nothing bruised, nothing torn; nothing broken, nothing sore. Tifa let out the shaky breath she'd been holding in and, as she did so, felt a sharp pinch in her chest—and then a dull pain in her shoulder.

She blinked several times. The room seemed much hazier than it should have, even after several minutes of being awake. How long had she been sleeping? Or, was she still—?

The vanilla paper by her bedside had her first name hurriedly scrawled across its front. Warily, she kept her guarded eyes on the door—was it locked? Was it only a matter of time before he returned?—and rose up in bed.

Tifa winced as the pain grew, and then all of a sudden she felt a searing tug at her side. Hissing, she removed the sheets to find the source of her pain; ugly stitching lined the flesh over one of her ribs. She panicked—she hadn't had the scar before, and her shoulder...

Her shoulder was fine. Healed, like nothing had ever happened, but she distinctly remembered the pain of being torn apart by his vice-like bite—and she didn't remember anything else after that, other than losing air and not being able to breathe. Her shirt was the only thing missing; her undergarments and her skirt were intact. The bed was warm beside her—that could mean a number of things but, she tried to assure herself, perhaps someone else had found them before...

Before what?

But the note beckoned to her, from the corner of her vision. Taking her time, and with no small amount of difficulty, she turned on her side and reached for the paper on the sidetable. The writing was jagged, but legible, and it wasn't her imagination—her vision was hazy, as if she'd been blinded... or drugged. She blinked again, trying to clear the fogginess from her sight and her mind, but she couldn't seem to shake off the lingering effects.

Eyeing the door once more, she swallowed hard and opened the letter:

_Tifa,_

_You are quite the strong one, do you know? Even in the face of death. This was not at all what I had in mind, but perhaps we could do it again some other time. I repaired your lung, a quick fix for a simple problem, but it was my fault after all. I was pleased to find that you are as beautiful on the inside as you are out; I couldn't help but poke around a bit, I hope you don't mind. _

_I didn't take anything from you this time, though I was tempted, but Vincent wouldn't know what to do with that anyways. It wouldn't have been fair, in any case, because of your handicap, and I had hoped to keep you awake for some fun. Instead I left you something—it's very unbecoming and not too pleasant, but it is harmless. You'll think of me when you look at it._

_Until next time._

Shaking, Tifa glanced over at the orb on the table. The thing seemed to taunt her—it was right within her reach, the solution to her physical troubles, but it would do nothing for the scar now. He had _purposely_ healed her shoulder and neglected her side while she slept so that he could leave his mark on her.

There was a red smudge at the bottom of the note, like a bloodied thumbprint. The bed—the bed was still warm beside her. Vincent must have—

Hellmasker was nowhere to be found, but he had always seemed arrogant enough that he would rather stick around. Vincent must have come to, he must have—read the note, and...

She grabbed the restorative materia from the table and held it in her lap. Whomever it was that had stayed beside her, she had a feeling he wouldn't be joining her for breakfast.

**The End**

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd._

* * *

**Note: **I'm not on any drugs, really. Just low sleep reserves and caffeine, which is, technically—hey. That could have easily turned into terrible paraphilic smut, but I kept myself in line! Thanks to everyone who's been keeping up with my work; I'm behind on leaving some of you the same courtesy, and I'm sorry. I'll deal out some reviews and get back to Agapé now, really. HAPPY HALLOWEEN. 

**Listening to: **Colin Meloy - "Jack the Ripper" (Morrissey cover); Collide - "White Rabbit" (Jefferson Airplane cover)

**Edit: **It has come to my attention that there are some things I need to discuss here, mostly for everyone's peace of mind. First thing: there was no sex. Vincent _wanted_ her, but he would never just _take_ it; and Hellmasker wanted to rip her apart—but not without a fight. What she got was something inbetween, because she was there in the middle of the change. Second thing: he didn't torture her. It's true that he would have done something terrible (moreso) if she'd been awake, but not without drugging her first, most likely. The pain I described is one that a person gets when his or her lung collapses; that's what happened to Tifa. I'm not saying Vincent (or any of his demons) are medically trained; a pneumothorax is actually a very easy thing to repair most times, usually with a puncture or drainage, but I hereby and henceforth warn you not to do that without medical supervision. The last sentence of the story is a reference back to the irony that _she_ was the one to come onto _him_, overtly, and she got more than she was looking for—her thought, not the narration, and a sign that she's probably a little skewed in the head as well. He did not lure her, but rather tried to escape her. Likewise, it's also a reference to his reluctance to join the others in social activities, and this is the point where she realizes, to bodily harm, why that is. In any case, I think this came across as much darker than I had intended... but whichever you prefer. :)


End file.
